


Bad Decisions and Good Times

by NutheadGee



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Ben Solo Is The Student, Dirty Talk, Dominant Ben Solo, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Join Me In This Trash Heap, Office Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sassy Reader, Shameless Garbage, Shameless Smut, Smut, There Is No Help Me, You're The Professor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 06:28:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7607386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NutheadGee/pseuds/NutheadGee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You just knew it was a mistake to decide to teach robotics as a master's subject, but even then, it didn't turn out that bad. So far your students turned out to be okay.</p><p>Then Ben Solo-Skywalker happened.</p><p>After all, you needed stories to tell your grandchildren, and what better stories are there than those that come from bad decisions.</p><p>At least there was no alcohol involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Decisions and Good Times

**Author's Note:**

> I have an exam in two days, but alas, the need to write porn calls.
> 
> Everyone is always going on about Professor Ren, and don't get me wrong, professor Ren is sexy AF. It's just that maybe thsi time he should be the student. Still a piece of shit, but the student.
> 
> Your kudos/comments fuel my passion for writing. Feel free to tell me what you think!
> 
> Thanks so much for all the support and enjoy!

Four weeks in, and you were still questioning that black devil that told you to take on this goddamn unit.

You wanted to blame one of your colleagues over in research, but oh, no, no, no; this one you knew was your fault. You gave yourself some bullshit pep talk, one of those ‘you should challenge yourself more’ types of nonsense, and somehow managed to convince yourself that taking on a unit for a master’s degree would be an excellent decision. It would be both mentally and intellectually challenging and stimulating, a breath of fresh air from the totally clueless faces of your undergrad students to the somewhat clueless faces of postgrads who kind of knew what you were saying but not really.

Perhaps you could even get debates going on once in a while. Nothing more satisfying than watching some white boy (or man) who thinks he transcends mankind because he’s an engineer being put down by a black woman. It made all the blood, sweat and tears of doing your doctorate in robotics more than worth it.

Alas, as all grandiose dreams end, this one in particular ended with you looking at your planner and these bloody tests you had to grade with a whole lot of judgement, regret, resignation and cold peppermint tea.

You took a sip of your now disgusting tea, and decided might as well get these papers graded. Did that Chinese shop just outside campus that did dodgy food do deliveries?

You were grading the fourth paper, one of those students that was disturbingly brilliant because of how comprehensive the answers were when your computer dinged at you softly. Definitely a panicked student email or something, going by the notification sound. It wasn’t particularly late, about five in the evening, so you considered ignoring it and continuing your grading, but you were getting bored of reading somewhat similar answers, so you thought it was a worthy distraction.

You were still technically working, seeing as responding to the countless emails your students sent in. If they spent as much time and effort on their practicals as they did drafting elaborate emails then life would be so much easier for both of you. You smiled ironically. Being a professor, thus a student a vast majority of your adult life it would only make sense that you would empathise better than most, but here you were, gently mocking your students and their struggles. You shrugged. You were a thirty three year old professor, and it _obviously_ didn’t take well drafted emails to your professors whining about not understanding something to achieve that particular feat.

You opened your inbox and promptly choked on your despicable tea.

Ben Solo-Skywalker, your _favourite_ student.

His stock was that old, established money, white, rich and entitled, the _epitome_ of white privilege. He was the son of one of the most (in)famous Senators, Leia Organa-Skywalker and her husband, long standing, successful commercial pilot, Han Solo. He was zoomed through some of the most prestigious private schools the area had to offer, before he ended up at the University of Tokyo, to study engineering, naturally in one of the most prestigious engineering schools in the world. After graduating with, no doubt, first class hours, he came back to start working with Hitachi Ltd, before branching out five years later and starting his own engineering consultation firm. Naturally, with his mother’s name, his father’s charm and many a prestigious woman’s praises on sexual prowess he just _had_ to be successful, being wealthy in his own right, and very well respected in the industry for being one of the most diverse  companies in the world, in terms of employing people based on race, sex, creed or orientation.

Despite all his privilege, he was, ironically, against it all, and used that very privilege to better the world, something your begrudgingly respected him for.

He was one of those _gentlemen_ that was doing this degree because he was bored. He wanted something a little different in life, so why not go to one of the best universities in the country for your masters?

You were so _salty_ because not only was he stupidly attractive, with his amazing hair and broad shoulders and formidable height and beautiful moles and freckles and defined nose and sexy full-lipped smirk, he was also incredibly intelligent, always offering well though-out answers, and asking questions that he _knew_ challenged your area of research.

You _loved_ it. You _relished_ it. You were _aroused_ by it. Very few men you’d met could challenge you intellectually, and Ben Solo-Skywalker _definitely_ posed a fantastic intellectual challenge, if anything.

Sipping your tea, you wondered if he could challenge you sexually as well.

You opened the email, and started reading, already drafting the sarcastic response in your head.

_Hey Prof,_

_There’s something I came across when reading one of the articles you recommended, and I thought it could stimulate an interesting discussion. You mind if I get a consultation time and come over, preferably in the evening?_

_Yours,_

_Ben._

You could hear his smooth baritone in that email, sounding so sure of himself. Why did he always insist on calling you prof? He was the only student that did that, and even after calling him out on it in class a couple of time he still continued.

Either way, grading these tests was getting boring. It was time for some entertainment.

_Ben,_

_How about now? I leave in half an hour. Think you can make it before then?_

_Definitely not yours,_

_Prof. Aluka._

A little unprofessional, definitely a challenge and petty as all hell. You thought it was more than a satisfactory response. You pressed the ‘send’ button and leaned back in your chair. It was going to be an interesting evening.

…

About twenty minutes later you heard a knock on your door.

“Come in,” you mumbled, not bothering to look up from your grading.

Your room was suddenly filled with a masculine cologne. “Evening prof,” you heard him, smooth baritone as confident as ever as he gently closed the door behind him.

Your eyes moved upwards, to stare at him from the top of your glasses. You caught a glimpse of his black jeans and black boots. One of your braids had come out of your bun, so you randomly wrapped it around the rest of them and hoped it would stay there.

“Ben,” you responded, voice indifferent. “Please have a seat. Gimme a minute. Let me finish this paper then I’ll get back you.” You waved your hand to one of the seats in front of your desk.

It took you about ten minutes more to finish the paper, before stuffing it under the pile, grabbing the whole lot and dumping them on a drawer. You looked up at him, and only three years of strict discipline made you not gasp slowly at the sight before you.

He had a black t-shirt on, and a leather jacket. He was all black today, and he was holding a humongous motorcycle helmet.

“You’re looking very casual today. Off to the pub?” you asked, crossing one of your legs over the other under your desk in an effort to get your arousal in a semblance of control. It didn’t work, and you felt heated lust pool at the base of your stomach before promptly dropping and manifesting itself as hot liquid in between your legs.

This man, _your student_ was incredibly sexy.

“My dad’s in town, so I went to see him. I thought it would be pointless to go home and change, so I just came by straight away.”

“Not exactly polite to be reading academic pieces when visiting your father, is it?” you asked, arching a brow at him.

He shrugged. “It was a good way to pass the awkward silence that would inevitably come by.”

“You don’t get along very well?”

“Not really. A bit of a personality clash.”

“Can’t blame him, honestly. You have a talent of gnawing at even an angel’s patience.”

He smirked. You swallowed. “Didn’t take you to be the patient type.”

“I’m not. What brings you to my office at-“ you looked at your watch, -“fifteen minutes to six in the evening, Ben?”

He stood up, grabbing one of your white board markers and walking around the desk behind you to write a formula.

“Are you this rude to your other lecturers, using their stuff without permission or is it just me?” you asked, feeling goose bumps pop all over skin at his proximity to you.

“My other lecturers wouldn’t allow me into their office at fifteen to six,” he promptly responded, writing a formula on the white board. You nodded. He had a point.

You looked at the formula he had written, your eyebrows knitted in confusion.

“I’m very sure I explained that formula in class,” you mumbled at him.

He put the marker back on your desk, before walking back to you, turning your chair to face him and standing above you, your legs in between his, looking up at him with a blank face.

“To be honest, professor, I lied when I said I wanted to discuss something you,” he murmured, his honey-coloured eyes having gone a significantly darker shade. You sighed, popping your cheek on your hand dramatically.

“Have you at the very least done your readings then? Because, quite honestly, I’m going to judge myself really harshly if I let you fuck me when you can’t even do your homework before hand,” you responded, watching his facial expression go from amusement, to shock and back to amusement.

He placed his large hand under your chin and run his thumb along your longer lip before tracing it on your jawline slowly. You fidgeted in your chair.

“How d’you know I want to fuck you?” he asked slowly, his voice having dropped an octave and sounding a lot more husky.

You shrugged. “Instinct. You’re very virile, and your body language tends to communicate a lot to a woman when you’re sexually attracted to her.” You moved your chair back and stood up, unable to look him in the eye and running your hands over his broad shoulders, down his muscular chest and over his sleek abdomen. “Then again I could be wrong and my judgement could be clouded by my thirst. At this point in time we both know that neither of us is here to have any discussion about robotics.”

He lifted your face to look up at him, and you thanked Black Jesus for bringing this man in your life to bless you with his smirk and, very soon, his cock.

In a split second, he had pulled you to his body and devoured your mouth with his. His hands had both slipped to your hips, and the kiss became deeper, his hands moved lower to your bum, and he grabbed at them roughly, squeezing them hard. You whimpered in his mouth, his full lips aggressively moving over yours, and he took the opportunity to shove his tongue in your mouth, meeting yours and winning a battle of dominance you weren’t even aware was happening.

You broke off the kiss with a gasp, desperately needing to breathe, and his mouth moved down your jawline, to your neck, kissing sucking and occasionally biting. Thank the Lord you were black and there would be no visual evidence of your…activities the next day.

He kissed his way to the area where your shoulder met your neck and he bit lightly, eliciting a loud moan from you. You could feel that hot, hard, bulge in his pants as he so shamelessly ground into you. He was big, so long and thick that the questioning thoughts of all the fiduciary duties you were breaching by allowing yourself to be seduced by your student were promptly thrown out of your mind and replaced by how sensational his dick would feel inside you.

He effortlessly lifted you up by your butt, gently placing you on your desk, moving things off roughly. He claimed your mouth again, as his hands moved to your skirt, pulling it up to your hips, the trail his cold skin left on your hot thighs making you shudder. He brushed his hand against the crotch of your panties, and you mewled into his mouth, bucking into his hand.

His lips let go of yours, a thin trail of saliva separating you.

“Desperate prof?” he asked, the male satisfaction rolling off him in waves.

You growled, shoving his hand back in between your legs. “Shut up and touch me, asshole.”

He chuckled, before slowly removing your panties, letting them drop to your ankles before he sunk his fingers in between your folds. You gasped, gripping his jacket like your life depended on it and burying your face in his chest, as his finger moved down your vulva and he finally slipped one inside you.

“Fuck,” he rasped, slowly pulling it out and pushing it in again. ”You’re so wet for me. Do I really do this to you? I can’t wait to feel this heat on my dick.”

He slipped a second finger in as he bent down to kiss you again. You devoured his mouth this time, kissing him as hard as he fingered you. Slowly he stretched you, prepping you for him. For the millionth time he broke the kiss, moving his mouth below your ear.

“I’m going to fuck you sore, prof. I’m going to take you so hard and so fast that you’ll never even contemplate the idea of engaging in any inappropriate behaviour with any of your students again. I’ll fuck you so good that I’ll have you thinking of my dick anytime you grade my assessment. I’ll work open this tight little pussy of yours so completely that no other man will ever meet the expectations of pleasure you have of them, and as inappropriate as this is, I’ll see to it that you enjoy every. Last. Second,” he snarled in your ear, punctuating his last words with rough thrusts into you with his fingers.

You moaned loudly. “Holy shit,” you whimpered in response. “Try me Solo-Skywalker. Fucking try me. If you think I’m like those basics throwing panties at you at a mere glance in their direction, you really have another thing coming,” you responded, very proud of yourself for throwing the jab before your mind blanked out with lust.

Growling, he roughly unbuckled his belt, opening up is pants in a flurry of movements before grabbing his dick and directing it to your entrance. You weren’t ready, and a curdled choke left your throat when he thrust himself in, fast and smooth. He was _massive,_ a lot bigger than his fingers, and your walls struggled to accommodate and stretch around him. You had never been filled this much by a man, and it quite frankly aroused you so much more.

“Oh God,” he moaned. “You’re so fucking _tight_ ,” he managed, before slowly pulling out and thrusting in again, roughly fucking you on your desk. Slowly, he set a rhythm, moving in and out of you with the finesse of a man who was clearly used to shagging women senseless.

Well, his tales of sexual prowess clearly weren’t exaggerated.

You felt your pleasure building as everything else around your blurred out, the only sensations you were able to properly register was the feel of flesh slapping flesh, your own mewls and the blood roaring in your ears.

You expected your orgasm to hit you hard, you just weren’t expecting the _intensity_ it would hit you with. With a loud wail of his name, you came undone around him, feeling the white blinding light behind your eyelids and the feeling of nothing but stupid ecstasy all over your body.

Ben, however didn’t stop thrusting into you, brutally fucking you with a ferocious intensity, very much intending to reach his own peak. With a low growl he came, spilling jet after jet of his thick seed inside you. Slowly, you both sunk down from nirvana, and with it, the cold realisation of what you had done.

You have just allowed one of your students to fuck you senseless, on top of your office desk.

Was it a bad decision? Most definitely. Would you regret it now or in the future? Nope.

You sighed. You realised that Ben was pulling your panties back up, no doubt to try and collect the mixture of his seed and your fluids dribbling out of you.

“That was…intense,” he said, slightly out of breath.

You looked up at him sharply, before placing your palm over his chest and pushing him away before sliding onto the floor. Your legs were a bit unstable, but you managed to stand up. You turned to look at your desk, mess was an understatement.

Your sass returned full force to hide your embarrassment. “Clean this shit up. And if anyone ever knows that you fucked me, I’ll snitch to your mum that you cheated on a test once.”

“Come on, prof, that’s not true. I’d never cheat on a test. You know me better than that.”

You smiled sweetly. “Yes, but when I’ll be snitching, she really won’t have to know that, now will she?”

Why were you like this?


End file.
